


us

by fuzzbucket



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: F/M, a case of the dark and twisties, angst territory, christ he's cooking again
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-02-15 21:19:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18677584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzzbucket/pseuds/fuzzbucket
Summary: He knows there’s an “us.” The “us” is all he thinks about these days. The “us” is where all his hope is pinned, right now. And until then, he had never ever heard her say it. “Us.”





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> Trying my hand at something multi-chapter; after this will probably be Meredith's perspective, then a continuation. This takes place at some point in the near future, and has zero to do with potential spoilers.
> 
> background music: Iron and Wine with Calexico, "he lays in the reins"

On Saturday, Andrew wakes up in Meredith’s bed.

It’s not like he hasn’t done it before – he’s woken up there numerous times, but always at odd hours. The middle of the night, or the middle of the day, or the wee hours of the morning.

He’s not used to waking up in Meredith’s bed, next to Meredith, with sunlight streaming through the window. He’s not used to the leisure of lying next to her and not having to rush out. 

He turns to look at Meredith, who is fast asleep. She’s snoring, just a tiny bit, and he finds it utterly charming. He’s not sure how he got this lucky; he fell asleep with this woman in his arms and he cannot wait to kiss her awake.

He delicately slides over toward her. She’s wearing his t-shirt, having grabbed it off the floor while they were getting ready for bed, and he is enamored of her in it. On the other hand, he’s shirtless, and a little bit cold. So he pulls the blanket back up over himself, trying to avoid jostling his bedmate, and puts his head back down on the pillow. He’s as close as he can get to her without touching her, and he doesn’t want to wake her. So he’ll just lie here, cherishing the moment until she wakes up.

He uses this time to mull over some things in his head.

After Zola had caught him, and after he went back up to Meredith’s room, she told him she had made a plan to tell her kids “about us.”

He _knows_ there’s an “us.” The “us” is all he thinks about these days. The “us” is where all his hope is pinned, right now. And until then, he had never ever heard her say it. “Us.”

And he knows his reaction was annoying, and over-familiar, and exactly the kind of emotional outburst Meredith hates, but he couldn’t help himself. After all of his screw-ups, after the false starts and back and forth, he and Meredith are on the same page.

Well, sort of.

He is honestly so close to telling her that he loves her. And he doesn’t think she’s there yet, and he doesn’t want to push it with her, and he doesn’t want to come off like some crazy, clingy, immature _boyfriend_ type.

He also knows that telling her he loves her puts them on a different road. Not the fun, playful road they’ve been on, but the road that leads to fights over so much more – fights over how to be together, fights over their future.

Fights over kids.

It has never even entered Andrew’s mind, until Meredith, that he wouldn’t be a father. He’s an Italian boy at heart – he’s always surrounded by family and kids. He’s loved kids since he was one himself, and it’s a lot of the reason why he quit being a paramedic and wrote off pediatrics early in his residency. 

With Meredith, that inevitable future looks a lot murkier.

Will he ever hold his own child in his arms? Will he ever sit up nights with his pregnant wife, rubbing her feet? Will he ever get to take his son to baseball practice?

That’s what he’ll have to think about after he tells her he loves her.

He’s worried the minute he tells her, he’s signed their death warrant.

So “us” is a big deal. “Us” is one of those steps toward that new road. 

Looking at Meredith as she sleeps, wrapped in his t-shirt, he’s filled with joy. And so, so terrified.

As if on cue, the bedroom door opens and he sees Bailey poking his head in. Andrew sits up gingerly, trying not to disturb Meredith. “What’s up, buddy?”

Bailey’s wearing footie pajamas and dragging his stuffed zebra with him. “I’m hungry.”

Andrew wants to laugh – a kid after his own heart. “Is it okay if I make you something? Your mom’s sleeping.”

Bailey grins, a megawatt smile. “Yeah!” 

“Great. Head down to the kitchen, I’ll be right down.” Bailey practically skips down the hall. 

Andrew gets out of bed, grabs a tshirt out of his bag, and pulls on his jeans. Meredith, still sound asleep, doesn’t hear any of it.

He heads downstairs and finds all three of the kids in the living room. Zola’s curled into the couch corner, reading a book. Ellis is on the floor, stacking Legos. Bailey is standing at the entrance to the kitchen, a hopeful look in his eye.

“Andrew’s making us breakfast!” Bailey practically yells, and Andrew winces a tiny bit.

“Oh yeah?” Zola has a disinterested look on her face, but she trains her eyes on Andrew. “What are you making?”

Andrew could not feel more on the spot if he were in surgery right now.

“I guess that depends on what’s in the fridge,” he says jovially, hoping against hope that someone in this house has gone shopping recently.

The gods must be smiling on him, because he opens the fridge and finds eggs and milk, and there’s flour in the cupboard.

“Pancakes?” he offers. Bailey and Zola shake their heads so violently he thinks they might pop off. “What does your mom make?”

“Cereal,” yells Bailey.

Andrew takes a good look at Ellis, who is pleadingly looking toward the box of Cheerios on the counter. “So your sister takes after your mom, then?” He pours her a little bowl, and Ellis happily plunks down at the table and starts mindlessly munching on them.

Andrew gets to work mixing ingredients, hunting in the cupboards for something to make breakfast interesting. Chocolate chips in the pancakes? Sure, why not, he muses, figuring chocolate for breakfast is probably a good way to get one’s girlfriend’s kids to like them.

He whips up scrambled eggs alongside the pancakes, so he won’t be accused of carbo-loading her children so early in the day.

The kitchen, like the OR, is a calm place for Andrew, where he can think and stew and focus on things. This kitchen, this morning, is the opposite of those things. Even if Meredith’s kids aren’t particularly obnoxious or loud or ill-behaved, he keeps having to swing around to avoid one running by him or another asking him a question. He’s kind of glad for the distractions, keeping him from getting in his own head about _us_. 

When breakfast is ready, he calls the kids in. Ellis, who at some point had abandoned her bowl of Cheerios, returns to eat with her siblings. Zola and Bailey pile their plates high with pancakes and eggs and fruit, and Andrew sits down to watch them eat. It’s a quick, messy affair, and watching Meredith’s children eat puts him at ease – at least he can do this.

When the kids are done, they head back to the living room, sated until their next meal. Andrew cleans up the kitchen, scrubbing the stovetop with a vigor that it probably hasn’t _ever_ seen. He’s thinking about going back for a quick power nap when he hears someone behind him.

Ellis is sniffling, and he crouches down. “Everything all right, Ellis?”

She opens up her little arms to him, and Andrew picks her up, feeling her wrap her arms around his neck. No power nap, then, he thinks, and rubs her back. He doesn’t know what’s bothering her – she’s not feverish, and she doesn’t seem sick. But the sniffling has stopped since he picked her up, so maybe she just needed a hug.

The fact that he doesn’t know, though, makes him think he should probably get Meredith. So he ambles over towards the stairs, Ellis still anchored to him, and heads up. 

When he gets to the top of the stairs, he’s met by Meredith, in shorts and a T-shirt and wet hair. 

“Morning, Mer,” he says in a low tone, careful not to disturb the little one on his shoulder. She smiles at him and he feels his stomach drop.

“Morning.” She steps toward him and rubs her hand along Ellis’ back. “Everything okay?”

“She seems a little upset?” Andrew has no idea what’s wrong and he’s worried he’s failing right now.

“Ellis, sweetie?” Meredith looks at her youngest and smiles. “I think she’s sleepy. I’m going to put her back in bed.” Andrew transfers Ellis into Meredith’s arms and watches them disappear into Ellis’ room.

Well, now he’s upstairs, he’s fed the kids, and it’s time for that power nap. He goes into Meredith’s room – she hasn’t made the bed yet – and full-on swan-dives into the bed. He lets the tiredness wash over him.

That went as well as could be expected. He made breakfast and the kids liked it; moreover, they didn’t seem bothered by his presence. He’s not looking for them to love him right now; he just needs them to not actively hate him.

He’s woken up at some point later – he has no idea how much time has passed – by Meredith shaking his shoulder. He turns over, bleary-eyed, and looks up at her. She’s got an odd sort-of smile on her face and it’s impossible for her to read.

“Oh god. Have I been sleeping all day?” He feels completely out of sorts, like maybe years have passed.

Meredith laughs. “You’ve been asleep for maybe half an hour. Calm down.” She sits down next to where he’s lying, and he runs the back of his hand over her arm.

“Is everything okay?” Not that much time has passed, but something still seems off.

“Thank you for making the kids breakfast,” she replies, still kind of distant.

“Of course, anytime.”

“You bribed them with chocolate chip pancakes?” she inquires, and a smile is starting at the corners of her lips.

“It wasn’t so much a bribe as…. Okay, it was totally a bribe.” Andrew’s heart rate is ticking upward. “I’m sorry. Should I not have done that?”

“No, you absolutely did fine. They never get that from me.”

“Yeah, they told me you cook cereal.” Andrew smirks and Meredith laughs, still with the half-smile on her face. “Seriously, Meredith, is everything okay? Should I go?”

She looks off into the corner and exhales. “Amelia and Owen are coming by in a little while, to take them to the park with Leo. I was thinking of going with, but I was also thinking of staying here.”

Andrew feels incredibly confused. It seems like she doesn’t want him here, but it also seems like maybe she does. It seems like she’s not happy with him, but maybe she is. It’s the same way he feels a lot of the time – like she’s got one foot out the door of what’s going on between them. 

“I can head out when they do,” he offers, and she shakes her head _no_. 

“It’s – ugh.” She stands up and starts to pace around the room. He has no idea what to expect at this point. Is this the us of it all? Is this what’s making her upset? 

“Meredith.” He props himself up on his elbows and looks up at her while she paces. “What’s going on?”

She stops at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, tapping the fingers against her elbow. He can feel the nervous energy flowing off of her.

“I said it.”

Andrew is really starting to wonder if he’s having a stroke. None of this makes sense. “Said what?”

“When I was talking to Amelia. I said we were hanging out this afternoon. Not ‘Andrew and I,’ but ‘we.’ I used the royal we.”

Andrew feels a little bit of the weight lift off his chest. Not a stroke, then, just some kind of relationship neurosis on her part.

“Yes? And?”

“And I wasn’t anticipating that.” She’s almost _glaring_ at him and he’d think it was hot if he weren’t so confused.

He lets that sink in a little while he’s choosing his next words. He has to be _really_ careful right now, because this seems like it’s heading into some kind of deep, relationship-defining territory and he doesn’t know if he’s ready. But all he knows is that none of this was expected. He’s known Meredith for years, why now? She’s been his teacher for years, why him? 

“I think it’s fair to say neither of us anticipated this, Mere. You’re not the only one in uncharted territory, here.” He hopes that was the right thing to say.

She glares at him some more. “I’m uncharted territory? What does that mean?”

Andrew huffs. “ _You_ are not the uncharted territory, Meredith, this relationship is. We have been a lot of different things to each other over the years, it’s natural you’d feel weird.”

She makes an exasperated noise. “ _That_ is not what’s weird, Andrew. What’s weird is that it feels normal.”

Okay, the stroke is still an option. What in God’s name is she talking about? Before he can open his mouth to ask, she starts talking again.

“I’ve told people about us and you’re here in my house with my kids. You’re making pancakes and picking up my daughter and you’re napping in my bed and it is all very _normal_ and every time I have _normal_ it gets fucked really quickly.” It all comes out in a rush of words and Andrew has no idea how to respond to that, but he doesn’t have to, because she keeps going.

“Derek used to make pancakes for Zola when she was little and she loved them because they were easier to throw than the other food we’d make her. That was _normal_ for a while and then it got fucked.” He’s listening to her monologue and he sits up. She’s still standing at the foot of the bed. He wants to reach out and touch her, make her know it’s okay, but her arms are still crossed and he’s pretty sure she doesn’t want him to touch her.

She’s stopped talking for now, and is staring past his shoulder at the space over the bed. This is beyond him, beyond _them_ at this moment. She told him not to leave, but he’s pretty sure he should. What he gets from this is that he’s too much in her space right now; they got to normal and maybe she’s having second thoughts, or wants to pump the brakes, or wants him to leave and never come back. He needs to let her have that time and that space, so he should leave.

Andrew stands up. “I should go. You need a minute.” He makes a move to walk by her and her arm flies out and her hand wraps around his wrist.

“No.” Her hand slides up his arm and she pulls him to her. He wraps her in his arms and tries not to focus on how good she feels. Her right cheek is pressed to his chest and her arms are tight around his middle. He rests his head atop hers and keeps her close. She has some kind of internal power struggle going on right now, and she wants to say it out loud, but she can’t.

He gets it. He needs a minute from time to time. He usually wants to be alone. Maybe she doesn’t.

There’s a knock on the bedroom door and Zola is there. Meredith looks up, but doesn’t step out of his embrace. “Mom, Amelia’s downstairs.”

Meredith nods and looks at her. “Be right down.” Turning to Andrew, she says, “Don’t go anywhere.”

He’s not sure where he would go, at this point. He settles for leaning against the dresser, scrolling through his phone. He shoots a quick text to Arizona, asking how she’s doing, wanting to grill her about what it was like dealing with Sofia when she started dating post-Callie. She doesn’t respond and he figures she’s busy; maybe he’ll call her later.

When did he become the guy with a bunch of fortysomething single mom friends?

He puts his phone down behind him just as Meredith comes back into the room. She lies down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He stays put, letting her call the shots.

“Andrew, come.” He heeds, gingerly stretching out next to her on the bed, knowing that if he looks at her, she’ll get mad.

“It’s nothing you did. I mean, that’s not strictly true – you taking care of my kids did it. But it’s nothing you did _wrong_. I just – I really like this, and I have a habit of not trusting good things, or trusting the wrong good things, the kind that go bad. And that’s on me. But I just…”

“You needed a minute.” Andrew decides to screw it and turns on his side to look at her, to find her looking at him in that oddly direct way of hers. 

“I needed a minute. I might still need one. But I want this minute with you first.” She grabs for his hand and he threads his fingers through hers, feeling anchored for the first time this morning.

His other hand reaches for her face and he strokes her hair backward, and her eyes drift closed as he runs his fingers along her scalp. He runs his hand through her hair and down her back, pulling her to him. She rests her head on his chest, and he holds her close.

“It has taken me a long time to get happy again. And I feel so happy with you, and I love having you in my life. I just don’t know if I can trust it.”

That hits Andrew right in the gut. He knows all this, and he even agrees with it. Caring about each other, caring about the us of it all, the murky future and the falling – it takes a lot of faith. And they’re standing at the precipice where they need to figure out if they’re taking that leap or not.

Andrew wants to. He desperately wants to. 

More than that, he wants Meredith to want to. And he thinks she does, but he feels her struggling with it. 

He feels her settling against his chest and it takes everything he has not to tell her, right then and there, that he loves her. That he might be willing to sacrifice everything he thought he wanted to be with her. 

For now, he’s going to lie here with her, both of them thinking the same thing, and hoping that it’s not the last time.


	2. now or never

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No, nothing’s okay, she thinks to herself. You’re in my bed and I don’t want you anywhere else.
> 
> Meredith's thought process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer than anticipated - holy finale, Batman! - but here it is. Meredith's having an emotional time of it, particularly with the Derek of it all. I am still a little mad at the show that Merluca got to "I love you" without a substantive conversation about what it means for Meredith to be a widow _and_ in love, and also about what it means for Andrew to have Derek be basically a constant presence in their relationship. So, this is my remedy.
> 
> Unfortunately, my remedy is angst. I'll write something fluffy to make up for it.

Meredith wakes up to an empty bed, a sweet smell in the air, and an uneasy feeling deep in her gut.

She blinks slowly, getting her bearings. She looks around the room – shades are still drawn, Andrew’s bag is still on the floor – but there’s no one else in here. 

She stretches her arms and her t-shirt comes up to her face – no, not her t-shirt, his t-shirt – and she inhales, smelling Andrew. The corners of her mouth come up in a semblance of a smile. She remembers tearing this shirt off him last night after she put the kids to bed, and picking it back up to fall asleep in. She remembers thinking that when he inevitably rolled away from her in the night, she would still feel surrounded by him.

Surrounded. Covered.

It scares her that she _wants_ that. She’s too old and too wise to think of it as wanting protection, wanting to be saved; now, she wants to be cherished, she wants to be swept up. It’s a feeling she hasn’t had, really, since Derek. She cared for Nathan, deeply, but it never got to the point that it has with Andrew.

She feels a wave of nausea as she thinks all this. She smells something wonderful coming from the kitchen and she has a feeling she knows what’s happening. Andrew has taken it upon himself to take care of her kids. He didn’t ask and he didn’t need to be told. He just did.

She’d be pissed at the assumption if she weren’t charmed.

She creeps down the stairs, thirty-plus years of living in this house teaching her about the loose boards and creaky spots. She sees her oldest reading on the couch; her son constructing something out of blocks; her youngest smashing some Legos together in a way they absolutely won’t go.

She puts her fingers to her lips – _shhhhhh_ – and creeps toward the kitchen. Andrew is hyper-focused on breakfast, and she decides not to bug him. She tells the kids she’s going for a shower.

As the water runs over her head, she rolls over everything.

It hasn’t been like this since Derek. She has sisters that help her take care of the kids, but it’s not the same. Andrew has fallen right into the habit of being there for her _and_ her kids. It’s easy and natural for him. He was right, when he told her that he likes kids – they seem to get along. Despite his push for general, she still thinks he’d be a great peds surgeon.

But she’s getting off-topic in her head.

Andrew really likes _her_ kids. But certainly – definitely – probably? – he would love _his own_ kids. 

Meredith isn’t sure if she loves him. She doesn’t know if she can love him. But she knows if he does, if she does, that’s a giant, red-painted hurdle in their way.

She has never considered the thought of having more kids. Aside from her age, she’s just not sure she could handle four, or god forbid, five or six. And sure, when she was younger, she wasn’t sure either, but back then she had the benefit of time and a young, reasonably healthy body.

What if she has a kid now and in ten years, doesn’t recognize the kid on its way to fifth grade graduation?

On the other hand, her mind flashes back to Andrew and Avi’s baby, and how sweet and natural he looked holding a baby. She loved her babies, all three, especially when they were tiny and adorable and travel-sized. When she watched him, she shook her head, trying to rid herself of the tiny, adorable thoughts she was having, and trying to banish any thought of the two of _them_ procreating from his head.

Meredith finishes up her shower and heads into the bedroom, scanning around. On Andrew’s side of the bed – he’s here so often he has one now – there’s his phone, his watch. His overnight bag is on the floor, everything in it neatly tucked away. The book he was reading before bed is face-down and open on the bedside table, and she can already see a crease in the spine.

She looks over to her side of the bed and sees her phone – and it’s buzzing, almost falling off the table.

She leaps for it. “Hello?”

“Hey Mer, it’s me.” Amelia. She had forgotten Amelia was going to take Leo and the kids to the park today.

“Yeah, what’s up?” 

“Just wondering when you wanted us to come by and pick up the kids.”

Meredith laughs. “Us, huh? Who is us?”

Amelia makes a noise. “Oh. Me and Owen.” Meredith knows better than to ask. “So, what time?”

“Well, we’re having breakfast right now, but maybe in an hour or so?”

Now it’s Amelia’s turn. Mimicking Meredith’s voice, she comes back with “We, huh? Who is we?”

Meredith grumbles under her breath. “The kids and _Andrew_ and _I_ are having breakfast.” 

Amelia sighs. “Okay, well, an hour sounds good. _We_ will see _you guys_ in an hour.”

Meredith puts her phone down. The “we” is bothering her. She could lie to herself and say she’s talking about her and her kids, but she knew she was including Andrew in there. 

It’s not a big deal. They’re dating. It makes sense. She can refer to them in the first person plural.

But she hasn’t been part of a _unit_ in so long. She’s got her family, but the last time it was we was with Derek.

She feels tears pricking at the back of her eyes and she takes a deep, shaky breath. “Fuck,” she curses under her breath, and she breathes deeply in and out. She heads to her dresser and grabs the first things she sees and throws them on. She takes a few more deep breaths, one hand on the dresser and one on her chest, before she decides to go downstairs.

When she steps into the hallway, she’s surprised by what she sees: Andrew holding Ellis, who has wrapped her arms around his neck. She feels her heart skip a beat as they exchange _good morning_ s. Andrew worries aloud that Ellis might be sick, but Meredith knows her daughter – she’s just sleepy. Bailey probably woke her up for breakfast.

She grabs Ellis from Andrew and goes into the kids’ room, arranging Ellis in her crib. She’s about to be too old for it, but it helps Meredith feel safe to have her in there. Ellis’ eyes flutter shut as soon as she lies down, and Meredith smiles down at her – she’s her good, easy baby.

She heads downstairs to check on her other kids to find Zola reading to Bailey on the couch. She turns toward the kitchen to find it almost spotless, like Andrew hadn’t just been in here making breakfast. There are uneaten pancakes on the counter, and she grabs one and eats it while finishing loading the dishwasher. It clicks on as Zola comes up behind her.

“Mom?”

“Yes, sweetie?” Meredith whirls around, half-eaten pancake in hand.

“Are we still going somewhere with Aunt Amelia?”

Meredith nods. “Yeah, in a bit.”

“Are you coming with us?”

Meredith has a millisecond of _you’re a shitty mother_ before she answers. “No, it’ll be just you guys and Amelia and Owen and Leo. I’ve gotta do some stuff around the house.”

She knows she’s not a shitty mother, empirically speaking. She’s there for her kids, they want for nothing, and she’s allowed to have an afternoon to herself sometimes. Particularly since she’s a widow. She’s got her village and that’s fine.

She knows if she were _her_ mother, she wouldn’t even be having these thoughts, and she lets that reassure her.

While she’s been thinking this, Zola gave up on her spaced-out mother and went back into the living room. Meredith sits at the kitchen table for a few minutes, deep in thought.

She’s not a bad mother for having time to herself.

She’s not a bad mother for wanting to spend time with Andrew.

She’s not a bad mother for continuing to have a career.

She’s not a bad surgeon for being a mother.

She’s not a bad surgeon for wanting to spend time with Andrew.

She’s not a bad mother for letting Andrew take care of her kids.

She’s not a bad girlfriend for having the time of her life with a man a decade her junior who she just _knows_ wants kids of his own.

She’s not a bad girlfriend for entertaining the idea that she might be the love of his life and he might make some very big, very stupid sacrifices for her.

She’s not a bad widow for allowing herself to find happiness again, however scattershot it might be.

Then why does she feel, oddly enough, like she’s failing at everything?

Her brain might make the logical leap to blame Andrew – after all, he’s the one that changed everything – but she knows herself well enough to know that this is a _Meredith_ problem. She’s done it to herself. She’s thought herself into a corner and whatever insecurity is left in her has come roaring back. She’s not worried about the judgment of others – she’s judging herself.

Before she keeps thinking herself into this corner—this corner of her brain with cobwebs and George O’Malley and the Alzheimer’s trial and the time she let Zola fall down when she wasn’t looking and the time she had too much wine an hour before breastfeeding but let Ellis have it anyway—she decides to go talk to Andrew. She doesn’t even know what about, really, but she’s going to need to talk to him about _something_.

She heads up to her bedroom. He’s curled into her bed, his hair messy and disheveled, his bare feet hanging off the end. He is sound asleep.

She is, momentarily, overwhelmed by the most conflicting feeling of love she’s ever had.

He’s here, in her bed, and she loves him. And the last person she loved was Derek. And Derek is the father of her children. He was the father of her children.

Is she really okay taking that away from Andrew?

Before she wells up again, she knows it’s now or never.

She kicks the bed. It doesn’t register. “Andrew.”

Still nothing. She pokes at him. She hears a grumble as he registers the movement. “Later.”

She smiles, in spite of herself. “Andrew, wake up.” She shakes his shoulder lightly, appreciating the muscle beneath her fingertips.

He blinks awake, then his eyes shoot wide open with alarm. “Oh god. Have I been sleeping all day?” 

Once again, she laughs in spite of herself. “You’ve been asleep for maybe half an hour. Calm down.” She sits next to him, and he runs his hand over her arm. She feels warm, then cold.

His eyes are still registering alarm, and she wishes she had a better poker face to put him at ease. “Is everything okay?” 

“Thank you for making the kids breakfast.” That’s all she can manage. 

“Of course, anytime.” He’s smiling at her, and she feels her heart squeeze and the hot-cold feeling again.

Time to ease into it, she thinks. “You bribed them with chocolate chip pancakes?” 

“It wasn’t so much a bribe as…. Okay, it was totally a bribe. I’m sorry. Should I not have done that?” He’s so earnest and thoughtful and it’s killing her. 

“No, you absolutely did fine. They never get that from me.”

“Yeah, they told me you cook cereal.” He smiles at her and she can’t help laughing again, but it sounds hollow and tinny to her ears. “Seriously, Meredith, is everything okay? Should I go?”

No, nothing’s okay, she thinks to herself. You’re in my bed and I don’t want you anywhere else. “Amelia and Owen are coming by in a little while, to take them to the park with Leo. I was thinking of going with, but I was also thinking of staying here.”

_You’re a bad mother you’re a bad partner you’re a bad widow you’re a bad sister you’re bad._

“I can head out when they do,” and she knows that’s the opposite of what needs to happen. He needs to stay, they need to talk. Today might end with them being over, she thinks to herself, and she wants to savor every last minute.

She has to say something. He’s got a look on his face like there’s a five-alarm fire. “It’s – ugh.” She jumps up from the bed and starts pacing. 

“Meredith.” He’s looking up at her from the bed and she doesn’t know how to express herself. She keeps pacing, thinking to herself. She knows he must be freaking out – completely lost right now. She stops at the foot of the bed, fidgeting with her hands and arms and looking off into the middle distance.

Now or never, she thinks. “I said it.”

He looks confused. “Said what?”

“When I was talking to Amelia. I said we were hanging out this afternoon. Not ‘Andrew and I,’ but ‘we.’ I used the royal we.” This barely scratches the surface, but it’s a start.

“Yes? And?”

“And I wasn’t anticipating that.” She knows that, by _that_ , she doesn’t just mean using “we.” She means falling in love with him, accepting him into her home, her bed, her mind. He’s the first person to see her tick since Derek.

She watches his face register that, with almost a bemused look, and it’s pissing her off. “I think it’s fair to say neither of us anticipated this, Mere. You’re not the only one in uncharted territory, here.” 

“I’m uncharted territory? What does that mean?” She’s picking a fight. Avoidance.

He makes a noise and she knows she’s being a pill. “ _You_ are not the uncharted territory, Meredith, this relationship is. We have been a lot of different things to each other over the years, it’s natural you’d feel weird.”

She wishes he could read her mind. It’s so much more than the relationship – it’s what it means, it’s what it symbolizes for her, it’s what it could be, it’s what she won’t let it be. “ _That_ is not what’s weird, Andrew. What’s weird is that it feels normal.”

And before she can stop herself, she finds herself spewing emotional vomit. She thinks Amelia would be proud of her.

“I’ve told people about us and you’re here in my house with my kids. You’re making pancakes and picking up my daughter and you’re napping in my bed and it is all very _normal_ and every time I have _normal_ it gets fucked really quickly.” She sees it start to click in his head, and he moves to open his mouth, but she keeps going.

“Derek used to make pancakes for Zola when she was little and she loved them because they were easier to throw than the other food we’d make her. That was _normal_ for a while and then it got fucked.” She can’t look at him, so she looks at the wall. The wall of the giant tumor. The wall she laid under, with Derek, night after night after night. The wall she picked at mercilessly before Megan’s surgery.

She’s surrounded by and she lives in her memories. And she knows she’s never told Andrew this much about Derek before, and if anything, it’s probably freaking him out as much as it’s freaking her out. She can’t bear to look at him.

Andrew stands up. “I should go. You need a minute.” He starts to walk by her and without thinking, she grabs his wrist. She knows she doesn’t want him to go. She doesn’t want him anywhere but here.

“No.” She pulls him to her and his arms go around her almost of their own accord. She rests her head against his chest and listens to his heartbeat. His strong, powerful heartbeat. He’s alive, he’s here, he’s not going anywhere. For now, anyway.

They stand there and she doesn’t know for how long. She doesn’t want to let him go.

She hears a knock at the door and sees Zola there. Normally, she’d tear herself away from Andrew, not wanting her kids to see her like this with someone who isn’t their father. But she can’t, not just yet. “Mom, Amelia’s downstairs.”

“Be right down.” She looks up at Andrew, who’s looking down at her with pained eyes. Her chest caves inward a bit. “Don’t go anywhere.”

She heads into Ellis’ room, waking her youngest from her nap. Her littlest is ready to go, grabbing her toys and shoving them in her backpack for the trip. Meredith, in spite of everything, is endlessly entertained by her baby’s excitement, and walks her downstairs to where Zola, Bailey, and Amelia are waiting. Zola’s giving her a peculiar look.

“Hey, Meredith.” Amelia draws out the "y" in her hey and focuses in on Meredith and while normally, this would annoy her, Meredith can’t help but feel somewhat reassured. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. Just a lot on my mind.” She smiles, tightly, and Amelia adopts the same concerned look Andrew just had. 

“Meredith?”

“Seriously, I’m fine.” And she knows, theoretically, she is. Nothing that’s happening to her is _bad_. And regardless of how things go, she’ll survive. She is, above all her other classifications, a survivor. “You guys have fun!” Her kids swarm her to say goodbye, wrapping arms and legs around her, and Amelia keeps giving her a look.

“I’ll text you when we’re on our way back. Maybe let’s do dinner?”

Meredith feels sudden relief. “Yeah. That sounds great.” She watches her sister – the sister she tried so hard to push away – walk out the door with her kids and feels endlessly grateful. In spite of everything, she knows she’s lucky to have her village.

She heads back up to the bedroom. She doesn’t want to continue this conversation; she wants to retreat into their sweet, happy relationship bubble and pretend they never have to talk about any of this. But she’s a grown-up. She has to face things head-on.

When she gets in the room, Andrew’s leaning against her dresser. She throws herself down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He stays put, she assumes out of respectfulness or fear or both, but she wants him with her. “Andrew, come.” And he does, stretching out next to her, careful not to touch her.

Now or never, she thinks.

“It’s nothing you did. I mean, that’s not strictly true – you taking care of my kids did it. But it’s nothing you did _wrong_. I just – I really like this, and I have a habit of not trusting good things, or trusting the wrong good things, the kind that go bad. And that’s on me. But I just…”

“You needed a minute.” He turns to look at her as he says this, and his eyes are warm and soft. He gets it, on some level, and she just wants so badly for that to be enough. She doesn’t know if it can be. They still have so much to discuss, and figure out, and get past. And they might not do _any_ of that. 

“I needed a minute. I might still need one. But I want this minute with you first.” And she knows she means it. If this is the last time, she wants to enjoy it, wants to know it, wants to savor it. Her hand grabs for his, perpendicular to hers on the mattress, and the feeling of his fingers winding through hers brings back the cold-hot feeling, but in a calming way, not the unsettling feeling of before. 

She feels him stroking her hair backward, and her eyes flutter shut as he massages her scalp. Her entire body relaxes and she feels him pulling her toward himself, and she rests her head on his chest. She’s trying not to think _this is the last time, this could be the last time, he could be gone tomorrow_.

He has to know what she’s thinking. And she’s got to verbalize it. “It has taken me a long time to get happy again. And I feel so happy with you, and I love having you in my life. I just don’t know if I can trust it.”

She’s glad she can’t see his face right now, and he can’t see hers. Her own eyes are welled up with tears. They need to figure out where they’re going, and any happy future for them involves sacrifice and pain.

And maybe overwhelming happiness.

But she can’t know that, doesn’t know that, is nowhere close to sure of it. And because she can’t be, she’s got to protect herself. She wants to protect him and his open heart, but she needs to think of herself first.

So she’s going to lie here in his arms, for herself, and try not to picture the end.


	3. running for the door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He keeps doing this to himself. Falling for the ungettable, the unattainable, the runners, and the deportable. Why can’t he just date someone normal? “This whole ‘better to have loved’ thing is getting pretty old, Carina,” he mutters, staring at the floor and trying to sound funny.
> 
> Andrew and Meredith try to sort through the mess they've made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! The end of the season took the wind out of my sails, I suppose. If the spirit moves me, there'll be one more chapter that's mostly Meredith's perspective and maybe a little continuation. 
> 
> Also, the end was actually a little neater than intended - I prefer angst, so it feels weird to me.

It’s been a week.

A week since Meredith’s sudden mood switch.

A week since Andrew felt the ground collapse under his feet.

On the surface, little has changed. They still go home together, they’ve even grabbed dinner at a place with cloth napkins once this week. They’ve even managed to have sex a couple of times, always quick and dirty, full of eye contact and unspoken words. They studiously avoid each other in the hallways at work (in itself an avoidance of tempting fate) and Andrew, rather than consigning himself to the hell that is the pit, has chained himself to ortho for the week.

He knows they’re not just avoiding each other so they don’t get caught in a compromising position in an on-call room. They’re not just preventing eye contact to protect against winks and smiles.

They’re doing this because it’s better than ending things by having a difficult conversation about how they are on two parallel tracks that are about to veer off in wildly different directions.

Andrew thinks about what it would look like, from his perspective, if things were just a tiny bit different. He sees two drawers in a dresser holding his concert t-shirts and jeans. He sees his own shampoo in the shower. He sees himself offering a ring, not on a romantic sunlit beach, but clad in scrubs in the gallery over OR 2. He sees himself cradling a little boy, Meredith asleep on the couch beside him.

Instead, he’s got a duffel bag with a constant rotation of dirty socks and his hair smells like lavender most of the time. The last big purchase he made wasn’t a ring, but a new turntable for his record player after the last one broke. And the only kids he’s hugging these days aren’t his – they’re Meredith’s, or patients on the peds floor.

He’s trying to be relaxed and calm about it, about how utterly unmoored he feels. He’s not used to being this unsure; he’s always been pretty confident, at least since he threw all his stuff in the back of his car and left Wisconsin for college. 

So when Carina asks him how he is after a week, he does what he’s used to by now – the vaguest of platitudes.

“Fine, just, you know, residency.”

She stares at him with that penetrating glance that he hates. They spent much of their childhoods separated by an ocean, but she’s always been able to read him. “How’s your lady boss girlfriend?”

He winces – he _hates_ when she calls Meredith that, because it seems so trivializing. “Don’t call her that.”

Carina shrugs. “How is she?”

“Fine, busy.” The warning bells are going off in his head, and he knows he doesn’t sound convincing.

Carina makes a _harrumph_ sound and drags him into the nearest exam room. What comes out first is some rapid-fire Italian that’s basically free-association, calling Andrew by every name she’s ever had for him.

“You think I don’t notice how you and your girlfriend haven’t been making eye contact this week? You think I don’t see how much you look like a kicked puppy?”

“Hey!” Christ, has he been that transparent?

“What’s the problem?”

“Carina, this isn’t really any of your business…”

Carina spits out a delightful Sicilian profanity, a legacy of their grandfather who settled there after the war. “Andrea. What is the problem?”

Andrew sighs, knowing it’s no use. “Meredith and I both realized at the same time that we don’t really have a future together, and we’re avoiding ending it.”

Carina’s face softens. “Why, exactly?”

Andrew feels exposed, but keeps going. “Because we’re enjoying our time together, I guess?”

Carina shakes her head. “No. Why no future?”

He exhales. “Because we have different plans. I want to live together, get married, have kids, and she doesn’t. She already did all that.”

Carina curses again. “She told you all that?”

“Well, no. But it was inferred.” Andrew didn’t even notice, but they’ve transitioned into Italian.

“Inferred how?”

“Carina, I’m not in the mood for an interrogation…”

“Are you telling me that you’re going to blow up your relationship over something that was _inferred?_ ”

“Of course not!” But he knows she’s kind of right.

“Mhm. Andrea, you need to pull off the bandage. You can’t end things on something that wasn’t said out loud. And if she feels that way, then yes, it’s over. But maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she’s just thinking. And you’ll never know if you don’t ask.”

He knows, in his heart of hearts, that Carina is right. “I know.” He sounds chastened.

Carina smiles at him, a sad, pitying sort of smile, but a smile none the less. “Andrea. If she feels that way, it’s not about you. It’s about her.”

He keeps doing this to himself. Falling for the ungettable, the unattainable, the runners, and the deportable. Why can’t he just date someone normal? “This whole ‘better to have loved’ thing is getting pretty old, Carina,” he mutters, staring at the floor and trying to sound funny.

She nicks him under the chin with a crooked index finger. He looks up at her and she’s smirking at him, not the pitying look from before. “Make better choices, Andrea.” With that, she turns on her heel and heads out of the room, leaving him chuckling behind her.

His big sister, as always, is right. They do need to discuss it. He whips out his phone. _Dinner tonight? Just us?_

He gets an almost immediate response, which is extremely unlike her. _I’ll make it work. 8pm, your place?_

He’s barely seen his apartment recently, but he would rather do this there than at her place, anyway. _Sounds good._

###

Andrew skips out of work early, having handed off his patients to his interns for the night. He swings by the supermarket on the way home, knowing that cooking will take away some of the nervousness he feels. 

He wonders if he’s ever going to feel in control again.

When he arrives home, there’s a pile of mail by the front door, messily piled under his feet. He gives it a quick glance – bills, junk, and a subscription to National Geographic that Sofia signed him up for while she was doing some kind of school thing – and throws it on the coffee table.

As usual, being in the kitchen is calming for him. The process and the quiet and the predictability helps him concentrate. He’s chopping and slicing and grating and turning things over in his head when he makes a decision.

He’ll tell her he loves her. And if that means it’s over, then that’s how it goes. 

Of course, he’s desperate for it to not turn out that way. But he knows that basically this will either be a giant fault in the middle of the road, or a bridge over it.

Of course, he’s not left much time to think that over, because he hears the doorbell ring. He throws a quick glance at the clock; it’s 8:15, she’s late, but not crazily so.

He opens the door and she’s standing there, bag over her shoulder, hands jammed into her coat pockets. “Hey.”

He meets her eyes for what feels like the first time in ages. “Hey.” He gestures for her to come in, taking her coat and bag while he’s at it. He notes her clothes – an old t-shirt and jeans – and tries not to read anything into them. “How’s it going?”

“Fine,” she murmurs, stepping into his living room. Her hair is swept up in a ponytail, revealing her neck, and his eyes trace the line of it to her collar. He watches her look around at the pots bubbling on the stove. “You made dinner? I thought we’d just do takeout.”

“I wanted to,” he responds earnestly. The corners of her mouth crinkle upward.

“What’s for dinner?” She’s wandered over to the stove and is peering into the pots. “It smells delicious.”

“Just some risotto,” he says, coming up behind her. He cannot resist resting his hands on her hips and ghosting his lips over her neck. He knows they can’t. He knows he shouldn’t. He knows this is a Bad Idea that will make things worse.

“Andrew,” she sighs warningly, tone at odds with the hand weaving into his hair. “We need to talk.”

He steps back and she turns, leaning back against the counter and folding her arms across her chest. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I know.” He flicks off the burners and covers the food; it’ll wait.

“Where do you see this going?” It hits him like a gunshot, and he’s simultaneously glad she’s asking and wounded at the directness.

“Meredith, I love you.” It comes out in a quick _whoosh_ , like he was telling her the score to a baseball game. “I love you and, to me, this is going somewhere serious. I have a tendency to jump into things, but this isn’t that. I love you and I want to try for a life together, whatever that looks like.”

Her eyes flashed open wide when he said it, and he knows he’s maybe stunned her into silence, so he keeps going. “That doesn’t have to mean what you think it does. We can take things slow.”

She looks at him critically. “Slow? Andrew, I’m not getting any younger. If you want to have kids, we’d need to do that, like, _now_. I have the gene for Alzheimer’s. Ten years from now I might not even recognize you. You’re young, with a life to live. Why would you want one so uncertain?”

He’s trying not to focus on the fact that she didn’t say it back. “Meredith, having a gene doesn’t make it one hundred percent.”

“I didn’t come here to argue medical probabilities, Andrew.” Her face is impossible to read. “I’m here because we need to figure out where to go from here.”

Andrew looks at her, then looks down at the floor. “I know.” 

“I’m not opposed to getting married again. I just honestly hadn’t thought about it. When Derek died,” and at this Andrew’s head snaps upwards – she seldom mentions his death – “I just assumed I’d be alone, and I was okay with that. Zola’s even asked me if I would get married again, and I said no, but then I just… haven’t really thought about it. It took me years to come around the _first_ time.”

“What does that mean?” His voice sounds small in his ears.

“It means that I don’t know, Andrew. It means we can be serious, but you might need to be prepared to cut and run.”

“You mean I need to be prepared for _you_ to cut and run.” He sees fire in her eyes when he says that.

“The hell I will. I have three kids and a big job and a house and an Alex. I’m not going to run.”

“Okay, so, _metaphorically_ cut and run.”

“Okay, yes, maybe. But maybe you’ll want to run, for real. Maybe you’ll get a fellowship in the Bahamas. Maybe you’ll go back to Italy. Maybe you’ll go fly to Switzerland and work for Cristina and take out all your compulsive-monogamy needs on Sam. Maybe you’ll just decide a middle-aged girlfriend with three kids and Alzheimer’s isn’t for you. And since that’s the case, then yes, I need to be prepared to metaphorically cut and run.”

Andrew’s blood runs cold. “Is that what you think of me? I just said I love you, Meredith. I don’t do that lightly.”

“Love can run out, Andrew.” The finality in her voice scares him. “Love sometimes isn’t enough.”

“So that’s it, then,” and it echoes around his head. It’s over. They’re over. 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“Meredith, you just told me you think I’m going to bail, and moreover, you’re ready to bail at a moment’s notice. What kind of a future is that?” He feels the ice consolidating in his veins; a mere preamble to the shattering of his heart.

“Andrew. I said those are _options_. I said we need to keep these things _in mind._ ”

“Why do you keep saying we when, of the two of us, you’re far more likely to actually run?”

Meredith’s eyes basically go aflame when he says that.

“You’re the one who put off going on a date with me _forever_. You’re the one who took months of convincing. You’re the one listing all the reasons it won’t work. I’m looking for a solution, you’re looking for an exit.”

Meredith steps forward, to the point that they’re almost nose to nose.

“You don’t get to tell me what I’m going to do. Did you ever consider that I don’t _want_ to run?”

Andrew stops for a moment. He hadn’t, actually.

All of his thoughts – everything running through his head – had been bleak, had been final. He hadn’t actually considered what the non-bleak options were.

“I didn’t consider it, no.”

“Well, I don’t want to run. I just understand that, all things being equal, things tend not to work out the way I planned.”

She’s lost him now. “The way you planned?”

She exhales, looking off to the side before meeting his eyes again. “If everything went as planned, I’d still be married to Derek, living in the woods in a giant house. Bailey would know his father, Ellis would know hers, and Cristina would still be here.”

Just when he thought they were back on equal footing, he feels his chest contract and his breathing speed up. He knows, in his heart of hearts, he’ll always be second – if that. But it’s something different, something awful, to hear it said out loud.

“But nothing ever goes to plan, anyway. We were in a plane crash, Derek moved to Washington and kissed someone else, and then Derek died and my kids don’t know their father.” He hears her voice trembling and his hand shoots out to grab hers. She squeezes it and lets go.

“I loved Derek, and I didn’t think I could love anyone again. For a while, I wasn’t even sure I’d like anyone again. But you’re here, and I love you. And I want to see where this goes. So no, I’m not running.”

Andrew looks at her, long and hard. “You’re not?”

She shakes her head, eyes glistening. “I don’t know where this is going, but I’m not running from it. I want to try.”

He clears his throat. “Try what, exactly?”

The corners of her mouth turn up again. “To steal a phrase from you, being serious. We don’t have to discuss the big stuff yet. We can let that happen, or we can check in, or whatever. But I’m not running.”

“And you love me.” He can’t help smiling, and she grins back at him.

“Yes, against my better judgment.” He loves the way she smiles.

He pulls her to him, wrapping her in his arms. He feels impossibly lighter, like he’s been pulled up out of quicksand. He thinks he’s got to thank his sister in the morning.

“Andrew?” He looks down at her, and she’s peering up at him from his chest.

“Yes, Meredith?”

“I _am_ going to run if you don’t feed me.” And with that, he laughs again, and she joins him. She spins out of his arms and over to her bag, grabbing her phone while he doles out dinner. She taps something out on her phone, smiling to herself.

“What’s up?” He settles the plates on the table, pours the wine, and lights the candle in the center, and she slides into her usual chair.

“Just texting Amelia something.” She shovels a forkful of rice into her mouth, almost savagely. “Oh, thank God, that’s delicious.” 

He laughs and digs in alongside her. 

Dinner turns to mindless chatter, mindless chatter turns into doing the dishes, doing the dishes turns into a creative use of the countertop and some PG-13-rated antics with dessert, and those antics turn into a trip to Andrew’s bedroom that he will almost definitely get a noise complaint about. 

As they’re falling asleep, freshly showered between Andrew’s sheets, Meredith curls into his arms. 

“Meredith?” He feels languid, warm, vulnerable. He’s worried she’s about to take it all back.

“Hmmmm?” She stretches slightly in his arms.

“I meant it, earlier. I really did.”

“About the tiramisu?”

Andrew laughs, in spite of himself. “No. I love you. I know it got kind of swept up in everything else, but I need you to know I love you.”

Meredith cranes her neck at him, her eyes sleepily blinking at him. “I love you too, Andrew.” She moves in for a sleepy kiss, then rests her head against his chest. “And I meant it, too. That, and the tiramisu.”

He laughs, pulls the covers up around her shoulders, and watches her breathe against his chest until he hears her telltale snore. He gently extracts himself from her embrace, rolling to his side of the bed so he can have some space. His right hand stays tucked into hers, tethering him to her.

Andrew knows this is far from the end of this conversation. There are fights ahead, and uncertainty, and problems he hasn’t even imagined yet.

But it is, at the very least, a beginning.


End file.
